Stay
by NoMoreTears
Summary: It didn't take much to realize the mild obsession SpongeBob had with him, and secretly he enjoyed it; at least someone adored him. But when he walked through the door of that damned pineapple, 'mild' was soon realized to be a understatement, and Squidward would learn he was more than adored.
1. Chapter 1

**I had never, ever expected to write anything SpongeBob related. I love the show, but writing a fanfic for it seemed impossible. That is, until I saw the episode "Squid's Visit" the other day and thought it had so much potential to be something...different. Something more up my alley. **

**So, here's my take on the episode. **

* * *

There was no room for rationalizing.

Squidward simply couldn't wrap his head around how he'd done it, capturing every minute detail of the interior of his home, down to the barely noticeable chip in the wall from when he'd moved in. This was something that had taken time, and he wondered how long it took, how much money was devoted to this twisted project. It had almost made him admire the boy, if only for a split second. Even he, as an artist, had not paid this much attention to detail.

He could hear the younger man's laugh carry through the house as he ventured slowly, quietly, throughout what was essentially his own home. But it wasn't. It was like something out of a dream—a nightmare, really—something so deceivingly familiar, yet haunting. Sinister. Fear crept up his back, raising his flesh, and he couldn't help but feel as though he were in danger.

He knew SpongeBob's childlike mindset would lead him to believe this was something endearing, in no way alarming, but something was off. That he couldn't deny. His neighbor had seemed over eager, more so than usual, to have him over finally after years of refusal. SpongeBob went so far as to steal the vacuum cleaner right from under his nose, and when he'd done it, he wasn't sure. Then again, he wasn't even sure when this construction project had began and he supposed he should start paying more attention to the yellow skinned boy.

Squidward came to a door at the end of the hall, what he assumed was a closet, and swung it open, reaching in blindly for the piece of equipment and was met with a handful of nothing. Cool air and silence.

Hesitantly, he forced himself to peer into the darkened space and felt along the wall for a switch, and flicked it upward, heart racing as the bulbs powered on and inch by inch lit the room.

He stopped in the center of the room, turning his body around and around to view the paintings that covered every inch of the walls.

"Oh, my...he copied them. All 492 of them," He whispered to himself. A sudden sickness washed over him and he collapsed onto the floor, his knees hitting the soft fabric of a throw rug, and after moving his body backward, realized his face was stitched perfectly into the material. It was all perfect, everything, even the statue.

He was in over his head, he realized, being here with his seemingly eccentric neighbor. He needed to get out. And fast.

Squidward took a deep breath and steadied himself before continuing his search for the stolen vacuum, and found the appliance tucked away in a closet, hidden from view behind a tall house plant.

"Great. Now I can get out of here," He mumbled, exhaling a calming breath, and tugged at the handle, expecting it to lift with ease. It didn't, and the more he pulled, the more his frustration grew, and in a final attempt, exerted all the strength he could muster.

The machine didn't budge, but he certainly had, flinging back toward the wall as his hands slipped from the handle's rubber grip. His head bounced hard off the wall, and within a mere minutes time, was unconscious.

Small feet shuffled down the hall toward the limp body and a smile—toothy and bright—spread across the younger man's lips. Everything had gone according to plan, though not exactly as planned, but the end result he desired was achieved.

It was time.

* * *

**Well, that's the end...at least of the first chapter, and I apologize for it being so short. Should I continue it? Let me know what you think! Any and all feedback is appreciated. Thanks for reading. **


	2. Chapter 2

**I have to say, I was quite surprised to see people were actually reading this. Thanks for all the reviews! I appreciate it greatly. **

* * *

The warm breeze brought with it the choking smell of smoke, and immediately his eyes opened, scanning his surroundings for the source of the flame. Frantically he twisted and writhed, escape on the brain, and soon realized his movements were all but fruitless. Layers of duct tape restrained him to the hard surface of a table, propped up so that he could view the fire from the window. The silver tape chafed against his skin, rubbing it raw, adding to his discomfort.

Discomfort quickly turned to gut wrenching despair as the realization set in that, the pyre that grew with every moment, its flames licking the bright blue sky, casting embers into the air like black snow, came from his home.

Everything he worked for was burning to the ground. Every painting, every sculpture. His _clarinet_.

"No, no, no..." The man murmured, salty tears blurring his vision. He was helpless; left to observe his world fall away before him, with no voice to cry out for aid.

The screeching of sirens blared outside on the road below, just out of his line of view. He couldn't see them, but he could make out their faint voices, shouting over the sounds, calling out for him, though he was nowhere to be found. They'd most likely assume he was dead, an indistinguishable pile of ash in the wreckage.

He looked around, vaguely recognizing the room. It was SpongeBob's bedroom; the only space that hadn't been altered to look like his house.

His house that crumbled just a short distance away. Squidward could hear their yelling now, louder than before, as chunks of stone crashed to the sandy ground below. A heavy thud rocked the earth, and he shook under his restraints, the table threatening to topple just like his home.

Squidward wept then, conceding there was nothing left that he could do. His body felt weak, riddled with aches and pains. Eyes glanced down at his arms and legs, covered with ugly bruises that discolored his pale flesh.

As the chaos raged on outside, he sank against the table top, sighing through the tears and closed his eyes.

The lock clicked and the bedroom door slowly opened, the boy's pet gliding across the floor, mewling at his owner. His neighbor laughed, that high-pitched, annoying sound that grated on his nerves, now sent fear through him. He felt it deep in his bones, poisoning his marrow with every negative emotion that roiled within him.

A flick against his nose, a playful gesture in any other situation, caused him to recoil. The boy tsked.

"Now, now; don't be like that," SpongeBob admonished him, shaking his head. The boy stared down at his snail. "You'd think he'd be a little more friendly after all that I've done! All the work I put into this house...Squidward, you're going to have to work on that attitude."

"After all that you've done? SpongeBob, what good have you done? You lunatic, tying me to a table, remodeling your home to look like mine. Did you light the fire, too? I bet you did," he couldn't suppress his anger, even as he realized what a disadvantage he was in. He couldn't help it.

The boy's smile was waning, lip quivering as he stared at his captive. Yellow fingers curled tightly into his small palm, and he forced them to remain there. To refuse his anger to get the better of him. Instead of reaching out and harming the man before him, he dragged a chair over from the corner and placed it in front of the table. Clearing his throat, he sat down.

"I understand how you might feel...peeved," Something in the boy's voice sounded different. Was it deeper? Squidward thought, and then nodded slightly. He sounded far less childish than usual. "But you have to understand, Squidward, I did this for you. Do you know how many times I had to beg Mr. Krabs for a raise just to be able to purchase some of this stuff?" He shuddered. "I did awful things. For you," He repeated, emphasizing the words. Digging them in.

"I worked so long to get here, and if it weren't for Patrick, well, I wouldn't have the luxury of seeing you this way. Who'd have thought that idiot would think of something so obvious, yet so brilliant?" Squidward's eyes widened at the insult the boy directed at his supposed best friend. His perception was unraveling, slowly, and he didn't like at all what was being revealed.

The boy's leg bounced, and Squidward watched as he picked at the hem of his shirt, which for the first time, was untucked. Wrinkled. Dark blotches were dispersed randomly on the fabric, and he tried not to think of what they might be. He focused on his slim chances of escaping, mustering all his dry wit and charm, and formulating a plot in his mind that he hoped was feasible.

How hard could getting someone deranged to release you, and sit back in guilt over what they'd done while you run for the hills be?

_Very_, he thought to himself. _Very, very hard_.

Squidward wasn't sure what the boy was capable of, and he didn't want to test his limits. The younger man, however, wanted to test _his_.


End file.
